


From the carnage of the fiery sun

by Gameafoot (Poesianlizt)



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Angst, M/M, Q's POV, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poesianlizt/pseuds/Gameafoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Funny, isn't it? That he had only discovered this no man's land growing in him when the words "No body has been found" were uttered; and not even that had destroyed the everlasting foolish hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the carnage of the fiery sun

_If you can make one heap of all your winnings_  
     _And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,_  
_And lose, and start again at your beginnings_  
_And never breathe a word about your loss;_  
_If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew_  
_To serve your turn long after they are gone,_  
_And hold on when there is nothing in you_  
_Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"_

_Rudyard Kipling, “If”._

 

 

 

 

 

Q reads her weary eyes and it raises his alarms. M's face tells him nothing, but that's to be expected.

She gestures him to sit down. Q chooses to remain standing; having the option of bolting right out the door takes away a little the raw sense of helplessness threatening to swallow him if he gives it too much thought. Eve eyes him but stays silent.

"I need you to dispose of his things", M says, blunt as ever. Q nods.

"Here are the keys and the address. I imagine 007 was not as reckless as to have left any trace which could compromise the agency, so I expect you to find only his personal belongings. Do with them as you see fit."

He wants to ask why so late, why didn't she allow him this before, why didn't _he_.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, "Why me?” It's a logical question; there's also 006, and Eve, after all, and she'd known him longer than Q did, she had known him better, enough to take the shot and state unrepentantly "Agent down."

M shrugs. "You were his handler", is all that she offers. And so, Q is dismissed.

As he is going out, he catches Eve and M sharing a look he can't quite interpret, but then the door is closing after him and he muses about the inevitability of time.

 

* * *

 

 

There are days, Q reflects, in which he realizes he does not know the date. Monday, Friday, Sunday. It’s all the same.

When he was a loose-limbed teenager hacking into government databases for fun (at least now he does it for money, to pay the bills of a flat he only uses as a bed and kettle and modem), Fridays were spent at the library, admiring the dusty bind of first editions, the molasses slowness of history pouring itself into its fragile pages. Saturdays he took exams and Sundays he slept. And throughout his life, right until his entire existence had been coded and translated into numbers to be obliterated under a Top Secret label, Q had been painfully aware of the name of the days. Now the only name he knew was buried under a heap of estranged soil, already dried of the tears he'd never shed.

 

* * *

 

 

The storage unit is immense. Q prides himself in being in possession of a fairly extensive vocabulary, but this place, this container of Bond's memories, is a gigantic deposit of his things (his _memories_ , a voice, definitively not his own, ~~one that sounds dangerously like _him_~~ , remarks), lacking any resemblance of order. He thinks that it suits him (suited, remember). He is ( _was_ ) a flow of incessant energy, never still, infinite in his momentum. And truly, he must keep away from physics metaphors.

Q unlocks the door and heaves it open. It is really a ridiculous object, because surely doors weren't meant to provoke such an effort just to unguard the secrets behind them. Not even ~~Jam~~ - _him_ , would have been able to open it easily, even with all his lateral thinking and muscular thighs. Always so bloody dramatic.

He stands there, hidden in the semi-darkness, not daring to disrupt the eerie spell of quietness. The dust mots floating idly in front of his glasses remind him of his task. He sighs, moves to the left wall, in the general direction of what appears to be a control panel. His coat follows him like a petty imitation of a cape, and he feels the morbid cold sipping to his bones. It's too much silence for him to bear with dignity.

Once the lights are on, it doesn't look so bleary, though. Covert bumps are littered here and there, musty sheets thrown over ancient furniture. Q uncovers an armoire, a mahogany bedside table with a scratch over its top, what appears to be a bed. Flashes of loved and lost souvenirs populate this room, and he feels as if he's an intruder, uninvited to the privacy of ~~~~a ~~~~forbidden past.

Piled in a far corner is a set of matching black suitcases. He traces the outline of a small one. His finger comes out free of clingy dust. Intrigued, he reaches over his head to throw them to the floor and unzips the biggest one. Inside, there are clothes. Tom Ford suits, to be more specific. _His_ suits. A colourful tangle of silken ties on a pocket. Suddenly, the weight Q has been carrying around ever since that awful lack of breathing on his speaker is bringing him to his knees, forcing him to dive his head and desperately try to capture a scent of gun oil, sea and strength, the scent of a beating heart pumping, rushing plaquets and red cells and white cells, _his_ smell. Q's nose is running over through the bespoke clothes, but there's only thread there. _He_ 's not here.

 

* * *

 

 

4 a.m on a Monday? Tuesday? and Q is still awake, humming with the righteous indignation he's so familiar with. There's been a break in, his alarm told him in the middle of a not so pleasant dream about a river on fire and something else he doesn't remember. What he does remember though, is the panic. Sheer, bloody panic, quickly transformed into fear ( _don't let them take anything, not his things, please don't let them_ ), anger ( _if they so much as touch one thing, one tiny screw, I'll-_ ), to finally settle on indignation ( _how dare they step into his life?_ ), instantly followed by a rush of delight ( _oh, they don't know how I am, they'll underestimate me once they do, everyone does, and they'll pay for this, yes. Think on your sins while I destroy you to your very last atom._ ) Q sits in front of his computer and mourns the missing scrabble mug by his side. He taps the screen and introduces commands until he's got quite a notion of how the breach happened. The security system he set up for the container hasn't been tampered with; this wasn't done by some technological savant. It was a simple shot to the electronic lock which disabled it a la antigua. What a pity, he meditates. That lock cost MI6 a small fortune. It's also a shame that the burglar hadn't tried to pick it; they would have fallen unconscious due to intense electrical shock. They wouldn't have died, though; Q doesn't have a license to kill anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty minutes later, he's standing beside the blasted lock, cursing himself for not setting up cameras; these days it seems he can't even _think._ The neighbourhood that harbours the unit is unsavory to say the least, and it's only now that the thought of the incident being just an everyday burglary occurs to him. He brought his gun, of course, but decided to be careful. Accidentally shooting a civilian would only earn him a dubious scorn from M and she'd revoke his unlimited access to the agency system (not that it'd work, but. It's the principle of the thing.) Thus, he clicks the safety back on and pushes the unhinged gate open to a slit. Velvety darkness is the only thing that greets him; he takes out the smallest and most potent flashlight his division could produce and points it to the floor. He knows better than to announce his entrance with a neon sign reading; he's got some training after all.

Sidestepping the detritus of upturned furniture, he searches the place millimeter by millimeter. If anything, Q is nothing but thorough. He's learned the hard way that there's always something. Call it a bug in the system, a crack on the ceiling; slaps to the face have rendered him cautious and failure is a feat he can only tolerate so many times. He's got yet to face his major fuck up- everyone is destined for one, even the almighty M, and we know what hers was, don't we? Reminiscence aside, Q finds absolutely nothing. No stranger at the gate, no shadow lurking between the armoire and the collection of paintings.

Pause.

 _Paintings_. He blinks at the canvases thrust upon each other, long forgotten by time and their owner.

Directing the beam to them, he lets out an involuntary gasp. Copies, they're all copies of the same work. _The Fighting Temeraire tugged to her Last Berth to be broken up_ , Joseph Turner. Oh, no. And also, the suitcases are gone. _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

If Q were to be honest, he'd say that the most troubling experience of his 25 years, seven months and sixteen days hadn't been hearing his agent being shot at- heaven knows he'd had his share of that in the year they'd worked together. No, it could be pinpointed with extreme accuracy to one January 4th, 7.p.m. Leisurely lounging on the uncomfortable couch of his Uni dorm, Q hadn't been expecting an entire platoon to interrupt his alone time by bursting (or better yet, imploding, permanently damaging) through his door. He hadn't expect it, had thought himself above it all for years, and the bitter sensation of being blindfolded and thrown inside a moving car leading him to uncertainty had never really left his mouth. What a jarring business, the nasty discovery that you are can't trust yourself completely.

Later on, once he had already met M and been recruited, he learnt that it was all for the sake of the show: when MI6 wanted someone in earnest, they got them quietly and without any witnesses. Assuring it was what she had hired _him_ for. And that's why he respected her; Patria and sheer pragmatism run through her veins, and he had been foolish enough to admire the elegance of her rule until not long ago.  Which in turn is the reason of his standing in front of her door, reciting curses inwardly for his indecision. He had somehow fooled himself into obliterating fear too, but he wasn't infallible. ~~_Exhibit A: 007_~~.

He raises a hand to knock and lets it hang limply only inches away. He can't do it. Now is not the time to put his faith (and loyalty and _~~lo~~_ -) to the test. He turns and walks away with a sigh. A loose rib in his chest sags in relief.

 

* * *

 

 

Some downtime would not be amiss, he begrudgingly admits. Behind the shield of his monitors, he lets his guard down a little, just enough to release part of the tension gnawing its way through his synapses, slumping his wiry shoulders. How much longer he can go on at this level of anxiety, he does not care to find out. It's this job, he muses. It tires your very soul, it twists and turns your guts until all tendrils of warm and cold sweat are forsaken. Working his arse off for Queen and Country has him mutating into a reckless creature of instincts; a wordless, flightless bird of prey. He has changed and morphed, for better or worse, who knows. He'd hazard his new qualification: cold. Recklessly, because each and every of his actions stinks of disdain for the future. A new mantra has carved itself inside his neurons, infecting them at a speed that should have him sick if not for his determination to make it work: I have nothing to lose. (Anymore, add that.)

 

* * *

 

 

Eve catches up with him just as he's leaving his office. It's 3:30 in the morning, he realizes. There's no reason at all for her to be at MI6's quarters still. The interns have left hours ago, even M has gone home.

"What brings you to my humble abode, Mrs Moneypenny?"

She gazes at the screens in awe, as usual. Four of the monitors show maps: the current location of the double-ohs under his charge. The remaining screens are drowned in lines and lines of coding she can't possibly decipher. Q smirks, but he keeps his eyes trained on her.

"M sent me to retrieve the report on 005's latest mission."

Her expression doesn't suggest other than what she stated, but Q bears in mind she used to be field agent. Eve flashes a smile. "Yes, of course. Let me get it."

He shuffles to the far end of the room and starts rummaging through a stack of papers for the file. He's got his back to M's new secretary while he watches her reflection on the glass panel. She continues to fidget slightly, oogling everything with wide, dark eyes.

Eve is beautiful, what with her slender muscles and long, tanned legs. Q is beginnig to relax when he notices her staring at him. Her face is so guilty he wants to vomit, throw his desk against the wall, break every single crystal item in the room with his bare fists. Maybe if he did, he could erase the itching, bottomless despair gathering at his throat.

He does no such thing. He pulls out the requested folder slowly, checks that it's the correct one, and turning around, deposits it in Eve's capable, efficient _(shaking)_ hands. For the first time in months, she looks him in the eye. Just like that, she is asking for forgiveness with a look. With a _fucking look_. No sodding words, no. Eve is too much of an agent to stoop so low; all the fucking spies are too proud, too tangled in their little traditional ways of not dealing with messy emotions because they are _oh so human_. Q hates her right then and there, despises her insufferable pity and the open honesty she's granting him, as if winning it due to the fact that she killed his agent was acceptable. 

"Here it is, then", he says and what he means is "Go fuck yourself". He will not mess around with her. "I do hope M's assignment hasn't kept you from your beauty sleep."

Sarcasm is so imbued in his daily speech that she takes no notice of the bite in his words.

"No, no, not at all Q. Mother-henning over the double-ohs is, however. 009 is hardly a sweetheart in his old age."

"Ah, yes, so I've heard. Never actually dealed with him so I-"

"You really have no idea of the headaches he gives me. The man is a _nightmare._ Take Egypt for example: he ended up almost losing three fingers unnecessarily. Almost seems he's trying to honour Bond's memory by standing as the new alpha male. _"_

_Oh._

After all the paperwork and the funeral with an empty casket, his interns stopped saying his name. M does not seem to care one way or another, but she resorts to the number whenever she is forced to acknowledge his demise; Q's interactions with 006 are professionally devoid of any reference to  former acquaintances in common.

There is, in fact, a new 007, a woman with grey eyes and dyed red hair whom Q can't stand and never plans to handle. So there is no reason to even talk about him anymore. And there is no reason for the fluttery shiver that it causes inside Q.

"It is a well  known fact that 00s are a piece of work", he admits, blank face and numb eyes and burning throat that do not betray him at all.

"There is a reason I favoured solo missions when I was still in the field", Moneypenny adds.

"Speaking of which, have you decided to go back yet?"

She shakes her head.

"M still needs me behind a desk, and even if she didn't, I wouldn't go through psych eval just yet."

Suddenly Q is beyond furious. He knows objectively  that being on the field is exceedingly stressful. He knows that it takes a singular single minded approach to end somebody's life, and that unless you suffer from some form of antisocial behaviour personality disorder, there are bound to be severe psychological consequences that only therapy can help palliate. It still does not stop him from wishing to put a bullet between Moneypenny's tidy eyebrows. He lets the urge fester inside him, carefully tucking it aside in favour of gifting Moneypenny with a tiny smile.

"You'll be out there in no time, you'll see", he tells her, and watches his lie seep into her skin harmlessly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Typing, typing, typing, bloody buggering fuck. A typing that never ends. Q pushes a wild lock out of his eyes with steady fingers. ( _Talented, your hands.)_

He looks around the lab to learn it deserted. It's imperative for his stupid custom of staying up until sunrise to vanish. But that can wait until after he's sure he's got it all covered. A soft pinging draws his attention to the second monitor on the left. Ah, _finally_. Countless hours of hard-working Q have come to fruition in this minuscule signal, barely noticeable, meant for his eyes only. The red dot beeps alive under Q's tender ministrations; coding as fast as he ever did, he pours desires and frustrations on it like the clouds gifting London with a welcome drizzle. Drop after drop he chases down a ghost, numbers revealing a secret he's not supposed to have discovered. It doesn't matter, not anymore, because his brain is singing praises to obscure deities and THANK GOD, JESUS CHRIST THAT WAS SO FUCKING CLOSE. Restless, he can't possibly stay in this office, not now that he knows, not now ~~that there's hope~~. So he saves the encrypted data on an USB drive and shuts off his machines. He waves the security guard at reception goodbye and is on the second flight of stairs when the whole ground gives in and he's falling, falling. Ironic, his final resting place is just another poetic metaphor of his life.

  

* * *

 

 

Waking up groggy and loopy in a foreign room which smelled too much like disinfectant could be regarded as wonderful only by his dim-witted interns. Unless they regarded the fact that he had woken up at all as wonderful, which is a really disturbing notion he doesn't bother to pursue. Audrey extends an arm heavily covered in cheap bracelets from a flee market to hand him a cupcake. Its pink frosting looks obscenely tempting.

"We know you're not supposed to eat this, Boss", she attempts to whisper, leaning towards Q's limp form in the hospital bed, "but we thought it'd cheer you up, wink, wink, nudge, nudge."

"Did you just say that out loud?", Q interrupts.

"Besides, hospital food is dreadful, ain't it Chase? Chase here has been into surgery thrice and they always served him pumpkin soup and water."

Chase, the blond one with freckles, adds, "Yes, Boss. And I couldn't even have _coffee!_ Imagine, Boss, me. Without coffee. Can you believe it, Boss?" A jab from Benjamin, tall, dark hair, green eyes, shuts him up.

"Oi, look! The Boss has netflix. And Teen Wolf is on!" Benjamin gives him a bashful, apologetic smile and goes join the others.

Oh, God. Were his interns always like this? True, he didn't pay much attention to them since agents were his real work, but, seriously? He always saw them composed, efficient. Must be M’s terrifying influence. But it's not like he can complain, seeing as he hasn't got many left.

Q gives the trio a side glance and finds them huddled together in front of the widescreen. Images of a bare chested teenager inundate it, casting a bluish glow over the group's eager faces. He wonders whether he could get them to leave before the show is over. Sighing, he slumps on the pillows and opens the little bag of presents some people from the agency had sent him. M had visited around midday, intent on debriefing him and dragging him out of hospital as soon as possible. "Q-branch can't survive without its quartermaster", she had declared. "And neither does MI6."

How touching, this enraged godesslike woman admitting she needed him. Q's heart would have almost melted if it hadn't been swept away and sunk into a river by a bullet he had designed himself.

The box is a fancy protocol filled to the brim with sweets. A funny tickling arises inside his chest, as if a moth is flapping tattered wings against his ribcage (damaged, two bruised ribs, several minor injuries, obvious concussion), upsetting a carefully constructed facade of self-assurance. _Perish the thought, perish the thought, perish the thought_. Q steals a glance to his right, but the interns are completely absorbed in their idiotic telly to have noted his ( _moronic_ ) emotional crisis. His hand fishes out a toffee candy wrapped in golden plastic. Shiny things capture his eye with facility; just another perk of being easily bored. He struggles to remember part of his history, a part he had left behind when he abandoned his name. Prodigious, his mother had said, and he had felt warm. A promise, his father had smiled, and he had felt bright. Weirdo, his classmates had spat, and he had felt like crying. A fucking embarrassment, his boss had said before firing him and he had felt frustration. Preciously useful, M had said, and he had felt appreciated. Genius, his interns had whispered, and he had felt admired. Darling, _he_ had said, and Q had felt consumed.

 _Shush_. _You're delirious, shut it_. Probably the morphine; it'd take a while for it to wear off as the nurse had injected him a glorious amount just as the interns arrived. Speaking of which, they are not there anymore. Did the show end? Q looks at the telly and finds it dark.  He switches to the clock, but he cannot read the numbers.

Shrugging, he thinks "Sod it". Better make the most of it and enjoy the treats.

Crunch, crunch goes the wrapping and inside a his mouth dives the sweet. Q's fist balls up around the empty plastic to come up confused. Can a limb be confounded? Surely, it can, when it's twitching like that. _Oh, God, I'm not having a seizure, am I?_ No, no, his fingers tell him; they are occupied in revealing a scrap of paper hidden beneath the crunchy surface. A horoscope, must be. Q is a cancer, but he hasn't read one since he was... twelve? Superstition is for dullards and all that... oh, bugger. A brief respite from pragm...pargam...pramga... pragmatism! would be welcome. Right. Yes. Now, he needs glasses to read. The hand not holding his fate hunts for them blindly on the nightstand area, returning victorious. Voici! Non, c'est voilà! Nevermind, he still pushes the glasses up his nose and peers at the paper. It appears to be National Extremities Perplexity day and his eyes are throwing a goddamn party. Bloody drugs. Hallucinations? Unless... no. It's NOT possible. But the canvases _did_ materialize out of nowhere and...

Feverish anxiety moves him forward and Q is snatching and unwrapping candies in no time. Oh, Jesus bloody fucking Christ. A lollipop lets fall another scrap of paper. Unfold. Gasp. Continue. Grab. Open. A bonbon spits up yet another paper. Unfold. Gasp. Sob. Go on. Seize. Reveal. Another. Another. Another. Curse. Curse. Bloody buggering fuck. Apple candies, banana chocolate, coke lollies, they all conspire together to drive him out of his mind. It can't be. CAN'T. But it is. And so, Q now has a collection of diminutive replicas sporting a grand old warship being ignominiously haunted away to scrap. The little _piece of shit_.

 

* * *

 

A day later, there is a non descript medic shinning her light into Q's eyes. The miniature paintings are long out of sight.

"What is the last thing you remember before the acident?"

"Do you mean the attack?", Q replies.

"Yes."

"... Working on the lab."

"What exactly were you doing?” Unknown Doctor interjects.

"I... don't know? My last memory is a blur of blue, the light from the screens, I believe."

"Records show you were the last employee to vacate the facilities."

"I was? Well, it's hardly an unusual occurrence. I often leave well past midnight."

"It was early morning, Quartermaster."

"How early?"

"The explosion was registered to have happened at 7:18 a.m. Which raises the question of your unscheduled activities."

"I honestly don't remember."

"That'll be all, thank you."

 

* * *

 

Back to work it is, then. Business as usual, simply in a basement. Q mounts the stairs and collides with Tanner going up and muttering something along the lines of "Motherfucking steps."

Truthfully, Q is in no shape to be mounting the bloody thing, _mais_ , MI6 new headquarters are far from updated, and that's being gentle. Softly, of very softly, Q climbs down to his destination until he makes out a primitive iron door. 

Afraid of what he shall find on the other side, Q turns the knob and is surprised by the smoothness with which it gives in. At least lubrication abounds in Q branch.

Q huffes an incredulous laugh and aims for the front of a long room lined up with several interns tapping away on their makeshift desks. He winces and draws a sharp breath; he's made the mistake of putting too much weight on his left ankle (sprained, along with two large cuts on his back, one single black welt on his calf, a rather nasty-looking scraping on his side, although his face has been spared, praise the Lord). Hissing, he hasn't given two steps before he's surrounded by concerned interns. They crowd him, laying curious hands on him, checking, poking and prodding, asking, 'Boss, are you alright?' over and over. They chant it like a mantra, paying no attention to the fact that he's not answering. They're too many, they're too close, he's sure he's hyperventilating and they have to get away because he will faint if they don't.

"Step aside, please, step aside. Let me come through, let me come through", a voice he faintly recognizes as Tanner's yells.

"MOVE!" A path has been cleared and Moneypenny is staring at him intently.

"Q, are you ok? Q?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Just a bit dizzy, that's all. But I'm mostly alright, yes." Now that he can focus, he realizes everyone is watching him as if he might break if they so much as blink. As if he's a lost puppy, abandoned by his master. _Is_ he?

Someone snapping in front of his face brings him to reality. It's Moneypenny, obviously. No one could manage to be so irritating while attempting to look worried.

"Q? Are you with us?"

He nods once and gets himself in check.

"Why, yes, thank you very much, Ms Moneypenny. I believe I've already stated so. I apologize for this little scene of mine. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with my work for the day."

Quiet murmurs run among the interns, but they make no move to stop him when he takes off for his computer. Sitting down, he concentrates on 008's mission in China.

Time passes by at the speed of light when his mind is engaged, and so it's an embarrassing one hour or so until he takes notice of the colourful array currently populating his desk.

Cupcakes, bloody shitty sweetness. Why the merry sentiment? Arg, let them be.

Q does. He works and works and works until it's time to leave. He gathers his cardigan, bag, and mug, all the while not deigning to even glance at the cupcakes. Because they're hideous. Atrocious. Positively awful. He sighs.

They're like a curse he can't get rid of, a scar branded on his flesh, a constant reminder of how ultimately good he is, how cute, how utterly frustrated with his personality which can't possibly fail in giving him hope. Oh, yes, he looks fragile, with his wild mop of curls (act the part, be the part); his glasses give him the appearance of an intellectual, and it's popular opinion that geniuses, especially the ones with boyish fresh faces, are the epitome of misunderstood beings deserving to be treated with reverence. And the clothes.

Oh, but _he_ had liked them, had he not? Thrown about on the floor, the brown jumper laying on the carpet, the plaid trousers keeping it company, Q precariously perched on the edge of the desk, wearing only a tie and _his_ delicious mouth on his hips, lowering, ever so slow, circling, teasing, engulfing heat, filling him, stopping the stream of numbers, and ohgodyes, erasing all coherent thoughts because _he’s_ going _down_ , down on his knees and doing that thing with his tongue that makes Q's heart race and he's plummeting from a building, sinking into the overload of sensation, a hand intertwining pale softness and callous warmth, rimming, pulling his trigger, purposefully blanking his mind until he can only whisper a prayer named J- and yes, there, oh J-, again, harder, stronger, faster, do it, do it now, yes, yes, yes, whatever you want, anything, yours, mine, we, us, _yes_ , you, me, _coming_ , quick, kiss me, gasp, there's that wonderful slide of tongues, shared panting, inhale his breath, exhale his heart, look into the eyes of your perdition and lose yourself, give in, give up, I'll take care of you, I'm begging you, give me something, a piece of you it's all I'm asking, your _name_. And he's falling, falling into the depths of a river who knows where, the Thames, is it? It doesn't matter, because it's not him, it's not longer Q but someone else, a god lost in the sea, it's not pleasure exploding behind his eyelids, but pain, a bullet breaking the skin, penetrating the muscle as he's penetrating Hell, air rushing by his sides, cradling him while he soars, an inevitable destiny flowing below him, the not-together kind, no hope, no love, no glory, no happy ending, and this is the way it all ends, with a _fucking_ bang and a pitiful whimper.

The telephone rings. Rings. Rings. Q is gripping the edge of his desk with white knuckles, staring into the emptiness of a memory turned fantasy. The cupcakes stare back, sucking him into the abyss. He's sure he'll never come back. He's certain he's been gone for a while. He knows exactly what's the quid of the matter, but he'll be damned if he's going to acknowledge it. Q refuses to willingly enter zugzwang while the game is very much still on.

"Q", he snaps at the receiver.

"Hey, I thought I might catch you on your way out. Did you like the treat we left you?" Benjamin's voice dribbles down into his ear.

"Oh, it was you?"

"Yeah, Audrey spilled her guts about your sweet tooth and the lads came up with a little ‘welcome back’ present. Was it too much?"

"No, no. Not at all. I was... very thoughtful of you. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Oh, hey, Chase and some of the others are going to the pub, fancy joining us?" Benjamin sounded winded.

"Erm, no, thanks for the offer, but I'm knackered and I don't feel like drowning my sorrows in a scotch."

"Aw, well, some other time then?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Ok, if you change your mind, let me know, yes? God knows you need to get out of the lab. Besides, it'd be less boring if you came." Q can hear a Foster the people mashup on the background.

"Ben, where are you?"

"Oh, we're at Factory now, but we're moving up to The Fox later."

"Ok, I have to go now."

"Alright, give me a ring if you decide to pop in after all. Goodnight, Boss." Benjamin never calls him 'Boss'. It leaves a pang of odd longing tumbling around in Q's stomach.

His gaze falls on the cupcakes again. Of course he will take them home. Obviously he'll eat them. And he will clearly enjoy them.

A phone goes off once more and Q recognizes the Game of Thrones intro as his.

"Benjamin, I think I was clear enough when I told you I'm in no mood to go out tonight", he growls.

Deafening silence on the other end, followed by a click.

"Bloody nutter. Who does he think he is?"

Biting into a violet blueberry cupcake, Q feels a shiver raise goosebumps in the expanse of his back and arms.

Benjamin hasn't got his mobile number.

 

* * *

 

On a bench placed in the middle of Room 34 at the National Gallery, a ghost sits alone. The apparition fiddles with a state of the art phone. The muted taps of the guard's steps are the only sound heard in this room of melancholy. He who shall not be ( ~~Named, Loved, Anything)~~ remains preternaturally silent; it's almost as if his supposedly deceased heart has actually stopped beating. But that would be inaccurate; for a heart which forbears so much pain not only pumps, but bleeds. His face, devoid of emotion, is but a mask, and the cracks are showing, the sorrow spills through eyes which are blind to the world. His body is torn, a map of places he's been and hated, where he's died again and again, reborn only in the land he belongs to, alive only in the hands of his master. As far as betrayals go, he knows he should be glad it happened this early in the game. Being emotionally compromised would have been a problem on the long run. The knowledge should be a relief. It isn't. It is, in fact, a nuisance composed of sting, hurt, bite, flames devouring what little good they find among the shrapnel. It's not relevant, whatsoever. When one's a specter, one has not a place to call home. And as one, the only thing left to do is to stand up and go, sly, stealthy, leaving not a trace one was ever here, to rage and destroy.

 

* * *

 

 

Once upon a time, a little prince's ocean eyes had watched as a ball of cotton with a button tail was swallowed by the intricate rings of a constrictor. From behind glassesless orbits, a petite hardrive had stored the image, computed it and processed its meaning to output that of hat. A quick x-ray and it turned out to be a boa, feeding off of an elephant. Mixed with the awe, an immense figurative heart registered tentacles of angst clutching it. Was that how things were? Pretty fluffy creatures eaten by merciless monsters, strong and powerful enough to rip off their heads in one motion? The law of the jungle, eat or be eaten? That brilliant mind had acknowledged the fact that its owner would never be one for savage beasting; its owner was small, made of pure crystals and shiny moissanite, perfect for muggle chess, not the barbaric wizard kind. The wittiest of his family had laid eyes upon a mirror and figured out he would never look like a spartan warrior, and he rather liked it that way. Nobody would expect him to murder bunnies if he wasn't a dragon. Bunnies were pretty, and dragons were bad.

 

* * *

 

 

Q arrives at his flat later than usual. He has taken a walk around town to verify there was, indeed, people who didn't have to worry about being stalked by possible criminal masterminds or druglords or serial killers or psychopathic ex-lovers seeking revenge. Embarrassingly enough, he needs reassurance that he isn't the only one leading a hell of a life. Some kind of proof that having a 9 to 5 desk job would be, in a way, deadlier that this fucked up occupation he has chosen. Any kind of paralyzer to the urge to take off to Paris, The Alps, Mongolia and never set foot again in this city of bones and fog.

A rambling path has him gawking at the washed-up front of the National Gallery. It is closed and empty, in contrast with London streets, packed with strangers milling about in an organized chaos. The cold is relentless; Q no longer feels his nose, ears, fingers. He never got around using gloves or a scarf, much less a hat. Whatever for? He rarely leaves MI6's premises and anyways, he only goes as far as ~~their~~ _his_ flat when he does. All of the sudden, Q doesn't want to be another nameless individual in a crowd; he doesn't want to be himself either. He does not want to be ( ~~Named, Loved, Anything~~ ).

Droplets of rain are blurring his vision, piercing numbness into his skin like needles on a worn tapestry, once majestic and grand. London in winter is his mind. Frozen information smoothly rolling through highways as the cabs do on the streets, alight and ablaze despite falling snow, the thrum of electricity travelling violently from tower to tower, energy sipping with alacrity through his veins. But there's the other half not bathed in a white blanket, the proverbial dark side of the moon, where susurrant loss inhabits, vagabonds picking at the rubbish, hidden nooks full of shit. His tainted slobbering spirit, crushed by an asinine dalliance never meant to cut so deep, like a kraken ever expanding its demesne of terror. Funny, isn't it? That he had only discovered this no man's land growing in him when the words "No body has been found" were uttered; and not even that had destroyed the everlasting foolish hope. Q wonders if he'll ever get rid of a naivety sufficient to kill him. Of course he guards it; he's a sentinel of his own fear of deception, because the one time he even entertained the thought of sharing it ended up so fucking bad he's still suffering the consequences.

Standing in front of a simple building, simmering with memories, Q wishes he could forget this devastation, and maybe then, he could stop getting by.

Q comes back to the flat drenched ad miserable. His home, far from the suburban-styled houses issued by MI6 to high profile employees, is a rented haven placed on a shabby condominium, where his neighbours are elderly couples who say hello to him on the lift and offer him homemade chocolate and butter scones. He is quite content with his present abode; Mr and Mrs Turner organize brunches and dinners Q actually attends to, if only to taste Mrs Hallmark's legendary wines. They had adopted him, pampering him, true, but everyone seemed so keen on doing that lately that he didn't have it in his heart to reject the old people. He even went as far as attending to their sparse technological needs; burning the first season of The hour on a DVD for Mrs Brown, for example. She used to be a journalist when she was young. In exchange, he got privacy. Coming and going at 4 in the morning would have been frowned upon by the fastidious night watchers who lived in his old street. As it is, no one is there to reprimand him when he drips over the recently polished black tiles of the hallway; no one to lecture him about improper times of arrival; no one to censure his bedraggled state and tsk at him. There is no soul waiting up for him, hence, no one to walk away.

He keeps his stumbling as quiet as he can, until he reaches his door. Q fumbles with the key, drops it and, when he can't find it, decides all can fuck off and turns on the light. Blinded by the yellowish glow of the bulb, he swivels towards the door, groping for the key. He gives up the task the minute his eyes focus on the writing on the wood. Right there, meticulously inscribed in red paint is a sonnet authored by the greatest English writer ever born; a poem ripped out from the very core of a lover's bitter disillusion:

"Can'st thou, O cruel! Say I love thee not,

When against myself with thee partake?

Do I not think on thee, when I forgot

Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?

Who hatheth thee that I do call my friend,

On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,

Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend

Revenge upon myself with present moan?

What merit do I in my self respect,

That is so proud thy service to despise,

When all my best doth worship thy defect,

Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But love, hate on, for now I know thy mind,

Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind."

 

* * *

 

"What do you see?"

"A bloody big ship."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go a bit deeper."

"Are you quoting some obscure show at me?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't understand that reference."

"..."

"Is there any reason why you're gaping?"

"I...it's just-nevermind. But coming back to the painting, it's a metaphor."

"I'd gathered that, thank you."

"There really is no point in you tagging along if you're going to sit here brooding. Art is meant to be admired, not ignored."

"Of course. So are you, darling."

"We are in a _museum_. Stop it."

"I'm not the one with the Apollonian face."

"What do you even know about Apollo? And we're talking about the ship, in case you haven't realized."

" _And she's fading down the river, But in England's song for ever, She's the Fighting Téméraire_."

"..."

"You're doing it again. The gawking."

"...winsome."

"Cuddlesome."

"Bastard."

" _Darling_."

 

* * *

 

 

It's everywhere. _But love, hate on, for now I know thy mind, Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind_. This is some really fucked up shit. There's no way he'll be able to let it rest now. He's got to tell M. He's got to find a new flat, get the hell out of here. Q sits at his ruined table ( _carved, fucking carved_ ) and lists the facts.

1\. An unidentified subject broke into the agent's storage unit, took his suitcases (possibly because they contained some sort of hidden information only known to the assailant) and introduced several copies of 'The Fighting Temeraire' as means of… a message? (Thus, being accquainted with the fact that Q had been designated to sort out the agent's belongings).

2\. An unidentified subject (65% of posssibility it consists of the same person) left him another message fashioned of small reproductions of the famous painting by Turner (meaning they're aware of its sentimental value and implications).

3\. An unidentified subject (fair assumption: it's the same perpetrator as 2 and 1) made a phonecall to his mobile (which implies they have a)access to classified information, but surely that's not possible, as it would also imply they work for the government or, worse, MI6; b)notorious hacking abilities comparable to his own; c)access to an amount of money sufficient to buy the stated above; d)all the three of them) and hung up without saying a word (so the call was meant to threaten, cause uncertainty and alarm, without giving the benefit of an identification).

4\. An unidentified subject broke into his flat and proceeded to cover every surface available with the verses of a poem related to the wrath of a thwarted lover.

The impossible: ~~A dead man rising from his grave has reemerged to taunt him.~~ Eliminated.

The improbable: An unrequited love has turned a mentally unstable individual into a psychotic stalker fixated on Q. Likely murderous.

Conclusion: Subject is obsessed. Current mania will escalate if unattended. Basically, Q is fucked. Well, deeply fucked. And not in the ‘damn good shag’ sense.

But who is it?

Relations apart from MI6: family in France. No ex-lovers ( _in position to cause harm_ ). No friends.

MI6: Tanner, too righteous. Never showed signs of developing affection. Polite and friendly within the limits of professional behaviour. No records of violence. Above average IQ, however, psychological evaluations reveal no treats corresponding those of a sociopathic or psychopathic personality, nor other serious disorders. Discarded.

Moneypenny: Tricky. Above average IQ. Psychological evaluations declare her fit for field work. Astute. Dangerous. Sensitive. Appears to be emotionally stable; attempted approach concerning Skyfall. Follows orders with efficiency, yet has decided to side up with Mallory. Not to provoke MI6's downfall, but to assure its continuity. Loyalty placed on the country. Hasn't been known to engage in gratuitous cruelty. Actually cared about the agent. Discarded.

Mallory: Modernist. Believes in progress. Honorable. Military career. Loyalty seems logical. Involved in Politics. Still mostly impartial. Aspiration born from a desire to achieve the nation's greatness rather than personal ambition. Classified files. Possible emotional and psychological trauma from torture. Not enough to cause a considerable change in personality. Straightforward. Never showed interest in Q. Discarded.

M: No. Discarded.

180 remaining suspects. People he has actually interchanged words with: 13. All of them: interns. One of them involved/present at two of the problematic situations: Benjamin.

Unfortunately, enlightenment comes rather late for him. Before he can even move, he's falling into the soporiferous sleep of sweet-smelling chloroform.

 

* * *

 

“You’re coming round."

Faces hovering in the dark. Hair made of caramel. Eyes of pebbles.

"Q? Boss? Can you hear me?"

His head is throbbing and the light is hurting his eyes. Q raises a hand to his cheek; it comes up wet. He ignores it and starts checking for injuries, awakening muscles and tendons. Everything seems to be functional. Everything, that is, except for his brain. Struggling to process the situation, he tries to sit up. A strong pair of hands holds him in place. Q risks the excruciating pain of separating his eyelids to peek at Benjamin's face, only inches away from his own. He'd think it's an odd distance to stand from your defenseless boss, but the haze pervading his mind is a tough foe to face while lying on your back on the floor of your ravaged flat with the sickly taste of defeat clogging your throat.

"What happened?” he asks, because what else can he do? Scream at Benjamin to leave him the fuck alone? Maybe he should. A vague hint of a anxiety is insinuating itself amidst his thought processes, but he can't for the life of him wrap his finger around its origin. Something's wrong, but he just doesn't know _what_.

"Your distress signal went off. We were at the bunker when it happened and Chase traced the signal back to here. I came and found you lying on the floor, unconscious."

Benjamin explains it to him in such a calm manner that Q wonders if he rehearsed it all. And the recognition of his own foolishness leaves him stupefied. He is being tended to by his possible attacker. How could have he forgotten that?

Benjamin is dialing a number now. Q wants to stand up, but he still feels light-headed and weak. He thinks the best course of action is to let things play out. If Benjamin was going to kill him, he wouldn't be calling MI6 and asking for an ambulance. Good. He must still hold affection for Q.

When Benjamin is done, he kneels beside Q and puts his fingers to his throat. Q almost winces and draws back, but catches himself at the last moment. It would be imprudent to let him notice his nervousness. Benjamin is taking his pulse. Can he feel Q's heart jump in fear? Does the rustle of his carotid artery tell him how scared he is? Surely, he can. Infallibly, it does. And yet, Benjamin acts the part so well, he lets nothing slip through his cover.

"Your pulse is a little fast, but you're alright for the most part. Were you able to see who attacked you?"

"No, I was-", Q croaks. Benjamin runs to the kitchen and returns with a glass of water. Q drinks it and goes on. "I was sitting at the table over there when I felt a cloth covering my mouth and nose. And then I passed out."

"Who even uses chloroform nowadays?"

"Although it is a cliché extracted from low-budget action movies, chloroform is a strangely effective anesthetic the criminal underground seems to be fond of. Especially used in kidnappings. I should count myself lucky I didn't suffer sudden sniffer's death. I fainted before that."

"Sudden what?"

"Sudden sniffer's death. The gases present in the anesthetic sensitize the victim to adrenaline and a sudden surge of it can provoke a fatal cardiac arrhythmia."

"Where did you get that from? Nevermind, let's get you to the couch. You'll be more comfortable there until the paramedics arrive." Benjamin raises and put his arms around Q's shoulder blades, lifting him up easily.

"Why you?"

"Uh?"

Q's sight is slightly blurred, but the aggressor was kind enough to leave his glasses on while performing his wicked deed. He looks around dazed, allowing Benjamin to carry him to the couch in a few strides. He lets himself go limp against the plump surface. Now that he can reason again, he would endeavor to appear disoriented and vulnerable while watching Benjamin. They are alone after all, and he has weapons tucked in secret compartments around the flat, but who knew how dangerous could Benjamin be? If he was, in fact, infatuated with Q, then he'd take it as an advantage and bring out the emotional card. That way, it was less likely Benjamin would feel inclined to finish him over the carpet.

"Where are the others? Why did you come alone?"

"Oh, not everyone was there when we got the address. And so I took off to find you while Audrey went to tell M and Eleanor stayed to run Q-branch until you come back. You know how it is, the others aren't much of early risers, are they?"

"Yes, but, what if I was being held captive? What if the attacker had a gun? What if it was more than one? You blatantly ignored proper procedure in order to play the hero." Maybe it is time for a new strategy: provoke the suspect and study his reaction. Easy enough, Q can freak out as well as the next person.

"Your life was on the line. Did you want me to sit there and wait for M to give the order? That could take forever, and you know it! And you're also aware of the fact that even then, she isn't going to send the cavalry after you. Half of the agents are on missions on the other side of the bloody world. And missions are called 'Secret'", he makes air quotes, "for a fucking reason. It is no fucking secret if a group of double ohs charge through the streets armed to their fucking teeth. I was there and I could do it. I didn't think it twice."

"You're not authorized to conduct field work."

"I have training, as do you and all of MI6's fucking staff." Benjamin starts pacing and gesticulating wildly. "I can't bloody believe it. Are you actually berating me for SAVING YOUR FUCKING LIFE?."

"I'm merely pointing out you risked your life unnecessarily." Benjamin glowered at him. His withering look told Q all he needed. He ducked his head and sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be an ungrateful bastard. I know I'm an idiot for saying that, I didn't want to offend you. And  I do appreciate you coming by yourself to help me. Not many would have done it." He offered him a bashful smile, and he received a hopeful grin in response.

"That's alright. I'm glad you're ok. You had us worried sick. I mean, what would we do without our Quartermaster? You have to agree Q-branch would fall to pieces if something happened to you. Even M admits as much. I can picture it all too well; Audrey freaking out, yelling at us at the top of her lungs to get our asses moving. And Chase! Man, he'd be in Heaven and Eleanor would-" The arrival of the paramedics interrupts his diatribe. Benjamin relocates to the window, clearing the doctors' path. They immediately set to fussing over Q, shinning a light on his eyes, carefully examining him and asking questions about his state. Q answers, does as he's told, but he's zoned out; his mind is running scenarios, calculating probabilities, threading and completing lines. Each string represents a possible outcome contemplating realistic options. He's formulating a theory, concocting a perilous plan, revising alternative ways out. He has seen a glimmer of truth in Benjamin's eyes. He's 93% sure he's not his mysterious assailant. Benjamin fancies him, alright, but it's quite recent, and not strong enough to unleash a propinquity to villainous demeanor. Benjamin is not mealy-mouthed; Q wagers he'll be making a pass at him soon enough. Thereby, Benjamin is to be discarded. And there goes the suspects list.

Tanner is standing in front of him. Q cranes his neck to look him in the eye. When did he appear?

"Nice decoration. Did you do it yourself?"

Q shakes his head. He doesn't feel like talking yet.

"Well, someone is head over heels for you, uh?" Tanner understands his attempt at light humour is going nowhere and drops it. "Listen, Q, this isn't the first, is it?"

Another shake.

"I guessed so. Why didn't you call it in?"

Q shrugs. He thought he had lost it, not that he was in grave danger of being loved to death.

"Don't you have alarms?"

A nod.

"And whoever did this didn't trigger them?"

"I..." Oh, God, he had forgotten. He had been so focused on finding the culprit he hadn't even given his security system a cursory glance. Idiot, idiot, flamboyant idiot. "I didn't check them. I was otherwise occupied on the fulsome love confession plastered all over my walls. One moment I was reading poetry and the next I was comatose on the floor of my bloody sitting room, so I apologize if worrying about faulty alarms didn't cross my mind."

"Calm down, I'm just trying to help."

"You're failing miserably."

"No need to get all worked up. This isn't my fault." Tanner spares him an assessing look. "Anyways, doesn't seem anything's missing. This was a personal attack, concentrated on you."

"I don't exhibit signs of rape. If whoever did this wanted revenge, then it has to do with some mission, not with my personal life." Q shan't share his suspicions, not yet. First, he needs proof. Informing the agency is, from now on, a contingency plan.

"Oh, I had the hope you were secretly a playboy."

"With this look? Crush it, you'll do your imagination a favour. As regards the 'nothing missing' statement, I'll confirm it myself, if you don't mind. This _is_ my home, after all."

"Help yourself. Medical will be done with you in five." With a parting wave to Benjamin, Tanner takes his leave.

Benjamin slides closer to Q.

"Is there anything you need? I'll stay until the paramedics go, just to make sure you're truly alright. If that's fine with you."

"No, I don't need anything. Yes, it's fine by me. Thank you, Benjamin. For everything."

"Sure, it's nothing. But you need to run background checks on your acquaintances. You never know who could turn out to be a Hannibal Lecter."

Right to his word, Benjamin remains with Q as he packs his clothes and equipment and books himself a suite at The Marylebone. Q may be overworked, but he certainly isn't overpayed. As a matter of fact, he'd go as far as saying he deserved a payrise, just for the amount of nervewracking animosity he's had to endure for the last months. He is in much need of a respite, and he has money to burn, so why not in a five star hotel? Living in one of those horrid MI6 safe houses without a shade of personality, however temporary, is out of question. They aren't nearly as safe as MI6 paints them to be. M would not be pleased, but Q is really out of fucks to give.

They share a taxi to the hotel, and Q pretends to unload his luggage and ask for his key. He can feel Benjamin's eyes on his back all the while. Q is no fool; he'd make sure to alter the hotel's records to show a check in to Jensen Whitemore's name, the fake identity provided by MI6. He'd let them think he was staying here while the situation at his flat was being sorted out, and use one of his other identities, the ones MI6 is clueless about ( _his way out ticket_ ), to get a room at the Haymarket. Faceless enemies or friends, the occurrence of looking for him in a luxury hotel wouldn't cross their minds. It is almost a master move, really; he'd also have the entire CCTV cameras of the hotel and its surroundings at his disposal, a wonderful notion in itself, but exceedingly useful nevertheless.

He turns to Benjamin, who's standing beside the cab, holding the door open.

"Won't you come up to my room?" Q jokes, flicking a stray curl away from his eyes in what he hopes is a successful imitation of a flirtatious way. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his cardigan and worries his lower lip between his teeth. Benjamin follows the motion with rapt attention. Oh, he's in deep, Q muses.

"Um. I have to get back. To the agency. M has to be erm... informed and all that." He shifts in place, the perfect picture of awkwardness in jeans and a too-tight black t-shirt. He has a gym membership, that's for sure. And to think Q had considered him his dead-to-be anonymous aggressor. Benjamin's nothing but cute, he comes to realize, a raven-haired kitten made of all radiant blues and ravishing figure. Quite delectable, his analyst. Surprising how he had thought of him in less complimentary terms only minutes ago.

Abruptly, his stomach drops and he struggles to breathe; that's what _he_ felt, wasn't it? _He_ had looked at Q and seen the innocence _he_ had lost, the realm of possibilities waiting to unfurl and become a reality, _he_ had seen the hope lurking behind his eyelids. _He_ had believed the lie Q shielded when cornered, a delusion of forever-young-and-talented, and _he_ had choked it down imagining Q had time in his hands while _he_ had it on his back. Had his eyes been marred by the same surquedry with which Q looked down on Benjamin? Of course, yes, yes, the answer had been there all along and he had ignored it because it was a fact which didn't fit his theory and obviously, obviously _he_ had been toying with Q's attachment like the devious dragon he was, just taking what he wanted and giving nothing back. It was his nature, as it was Q's to unselfishly offer. God, it was sick. He wanted to extirpate the trusting disease, this cancer turning his bones into rumble, the decaying cells contaminating the whole.

Benjamin is talking, kissing his cheek goodbye, closing the cab door and then speeding away from Q's numb frame. An uncertain time later, Q finds himself huddled below the duvet of his new bed, five feathery pillows as a barricade against the freezing horror of his own stupidity. He's not sure how he got here, maybe someone helped him up, maybe he dragged himself to his room. He couldn't care less. He only knows numbness now. There is a void chewing away tender flesh, corroding a weak _sistema cardiovasculare_ , his heart pumping acid instead of oxygenated blood. Absence. Of feeling. Of thinking.  Of air. He hates himself more than he hates _him_. Q's the one who fell like a fool. He's the one left behind to mourn like a pitiful widower. He's the one who allowed his four letter word to be beaten up, bruised beyond recognition.

Anger and self-loathing are a dangerous mixture, Q knows. But he won't do anything rash; _he_ doesn't deserve it. So he sleeps away his sorrow, hoping against hope that it will have vanished into thin air by the time he wakes up.

 

* * *

 

 

Come morning, amnesia hasn't magically descended upon Q. He wakes up to light spilling over his new home, bathing it in the diamond glow of London mornings.

Outside his walls, clouds race over the cement of the city, thrumming with the exhilaration of having survived another day without succumbing to its inhabitants greed. Q basks in the insanity of it all, on how his life has become this bitter slice of a cherry cake, golden and scarlet like the drapes hiding the balcony from sight. He peels himself away from the luscious affair that is the bed and crawls to the bathroom. He had booked a suite, and his farsightedness has never been more appreciated, for it includes not only a king size bedroom, but also a drawing room (complete with a fireplace, and this hotel certainly has class), a _dressing room_ , and even an entrance hallway, all stages skipped in his rush to throw himself into bed and cry until he bled the previous night.

The bathroom is no disappointment; spacious, black and white tiles, fuzzy towels and a bathtub which looks frankly splendorous. Clothes are discarded efficiently, hot water is drawn and steam gathers inside the cozy room, fogging up the rococo mirror hanging over the sink. Q sinks into the warmth and lets it wash away his tension, if only for this moment, content only with existing somewhere safe. It feels like eons since he last could think untroubled, and God how he has missed it, the youthful trust in the future, the ignorant security of feeling invincible, like the possibility of everything blowing up in your face is remote, unthinkable. Over his head he spots a black box fixed upon the wall, far enough that the water won't reach it. On a careful examination, it proves to be a docking, and Q congratulates himself for following the whim of buying his mobile, even if it was just to see what all the fuss around the device was about. He reaches towards his trousers and takes it out of his pocket, connecting it. Shuffle all, a random playlist. Why did he ever downloaded it, he doesn't know. But he lets is play, the familiarity of mindless pop flowing easily through his brain. No complicated, meaningful lyrics here, nor the throb of deep emotion awaiting among the notes of a symphony. Q closes his eyes. His body settles against the bathtub, head propped on the edge, sphinterism sparkling in the darkness of his closed eyelids.

 

* * *

 

 

Nightmares are the way your subconscious communicates with your conscious mind. They reflect your highest hopes, your deepest fears. They provide an outlet for pent up frustrations, they are the country of failed dreams, a misgiving nation of insignificant recollections and unforgettable mementos. Ancient cultures believed in the power of the human mind, freed of Morality's dictatorship inside a dream to uncoil and unleash its full potential. That's why some people insist in lucid dreaming. Others try to predict the future, or establish a connection with their previous lives. Freud compared the mind to an iceberg; the small visible part being the conscious mind, seen as a great mass from the surface. But there's also what's hidden in the depths, greater than the gleaming whiteness touching the air, despotic even in its deceitfully dormant facade. However, it is undeniable that Nietzsche was partly right; when you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes back at you, and if you bother to speak to it, it might speak to you as well. It might provide you with the answer to your problems; it does, after all, know you better than you know yourself.

 

* * *

 

 

Type, type, type, type, his brain is screaming. He can feel his sore throat shouting, yearning for a name he can't pronounce and then there's a bang, chunks of the ceiling landing beside him as he is expelled backwards, his hip hitting the floor painfully. He's panting, weazing, and he sees how his breaths morph into words trailing through the air, intertwining like the complex pattern of a medieval tapestry, delving into a picture of zeroes and ones; first a hint of a cheek, rough with stubble and Q can feel it beneath his fingerprints, but then there's the flutter of eyelashes, fawning out in the gorgeous arc of impossible delicacy, more numbers being born to join the curve of the iris, without colour, because its a concept never heard of in the abyss, and now follows the bow of plush lips forever mended into a smirk, the sagacious valley of sins, where dirty midnight imaginations come to rest after creeping out of the gutter.

The image flickers and stays, broadcasting chains of numbers to the ruins of Q's office, wrapping around his shoulders, caressing his face, holding his bony elbows, as if trying to appease him, lovingly soothing him. The image flickers again and disappears, leaving behind a mist of tiny pixels but they vanish too, and Q's malfunctioning heart stutters, not that he knows why, after all, the man was a stranger, Q doesn't even know his name, so why should he be comforted by his hologram?

All around him office supplies continue to be blown up to pieces; Q perceives his mug sitting untouched in front of him, and he grabs it. Inside, there's an USB drive. It's labelled in another language, something Q barely recognizes as Russian. But he knows Russian. His grandfather taught him before he passed away; he should be able to read it.

And yet he can't, can't, and somehow, he knows that THIS IS IMPORTANT, a gnawing impatience inside him tells him so and panic starts rising because what if he doesn't figure it out on time?

Time is running up, cities are exploding, the system is collapsing, friends are perishing, Q is decrypting as fast as he can but he knows it won't be enough, he's never enough, _amentia_. A loud crash startles him and he looks to his right. The wall has cracked, water leaking through, and soon it will give way completely, effacing Q and everything he cares about in a second. Somewhere, a bell tolls and he wonders idly for whom. The shackle, shackle, shackle of an object of great mass approaching can be heard, the entire room is shaking, and it's getting louder and louder, it's close, despairingly so, an Q still hasn't cracked the code, what is taking him so long, it's only numbers and letters, something he has handled in the past, everyday as matter of fact,the very blood in his veins, and how can it be betraying him like this, his own ability, his own intellect?

Whatever it is, it's already here, smashing into the wall which comes toppling down and Q realizes... it's a train. And it's heading directly towards him. But before it collides with Q's trembling form clutching the mug tight, a wave sweeps him off his feet, and soon his lungs are filling with muddy water, the echo of a gunshot sending ripples directly into his ear.

 

* * *

 

 

"I can't. You know, contrary to what you and the entire MI6 have come to believe, you're not the only agent in my charge."

A sharp clicking sound signals the end of the transmission.

"Fuck! Q, get back in line now!"

The agent is panting in his seat, next to Eve, both dodging bullets while chasing the mark in a Land Rover Defender. Eve is driving like she stole it, and he huffs a humourless laugh. "You're going to kill us faster than the bloody bastard."

They have already lost a mirror to a daring move a few blocks earlier. They lose another one to a parked car and his partner says, "Didn't need that one either."

The agent's earpiece crackles to life.

"This is a private line. Listen, I really can't lend you a hand with this. You know what happened last time. If I help you again and things go awry..."

"Fine, you want to hear me beg, I-", a violent swerve cuts him short. "Damn it, Eve! Q, this is fucking important! I'm not asking you to blow up half the city for me. It's a fucking back up too much to ask?"

"I'm aware of the delicacy of this mission, agent. However, I stand firm. This is my job on the line, and I'm not willing to risk it to babysit you."

"And these are people's lives on the line! Fucking shit, Q. M won't give a fuck if the mission is completed, but for that I NEED.YOUR.HELP."

"And I'm sorry to say I can't provide it. I wasn't assigned on this mission; you'll have to do it on your own."

Their mark's motorcycle crashes into another biker, but he comes up unscathed and climbs back onto it, speeding away. Every second is a wasted chance, and he can't afford to lose that disk, not now that he's already lost a partner. He goes after the man, grabbing a bike himself. Eve is saying something, but he's already hot in pursue of their mark, across the shady tents of a bazaar. A new noise in his ear and he anticipates hearing the voice of his quartermaster telling him that he's changed his mind, giving in to his pleas and showing him the way out. He always does.

"There aren't cameras available where you are. Get him to the east and I'll have coverage."

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, he mouths. The mark is tumbling over tiled rooftops, leading him to the train rails. He's trying to get to the airport, the agent thinks, and changes gears to inch closer.

"Not the airport. The docks." Ever helpful, his quartermaster. This is why they work, he plays along with a plan crafted specially for him by _his_ hands and they wreck every city they touch, but he wouldn't have it any other way if it means he gets to finish the mission alive and back home to _his_ skin. His distraction has cost him dear; he's lost the mark, but there's a bridge and he doesn't think it twice, just leaps for it.

Rush ahead, and he's on top of the moving machine, the assassin fighting back mightily, and the agent is hurt and bleeding and how did that happen? Ah, right, a bullet. Medical will take care of that later, but right now he needs to retrieve the disk. Entangled as he is with his mark's ability with his fists, the agent pays little attention to the conversation going on in his earpiece. Eve and M, he recognizes the voices vaguely. M barks orders and Eve promptly obeys, following him at a distance. If he squints, he can see the jeep rolling up the dirt road, but he's rather busy attempting to end the man's life in any way he can. Two tunnels later, he isn't any closer to his goal, Eve has come to a dead end and _perfect_ , there's another bloody tunnel coming. Eve is positioning herself with a rifle.

The agent activates the left earpiece he's carrying and is rewarded with a punch to the solar plexus that leaves him grunting on his knees. The mark seizes the opportunity to wrap his arms around his throat, squeezing viciously.

"Q", he manages to bark.

"Yes?"

The man hauls him up, putting him in the line of fire, but he turns around quickly and the mark loses his balance, both almost falling down.

"Agent? State situation."

"Be-ing...killed."

Eve indicates she hasn't got a clear shot, M asks for details. Eve answers, her words lost in the struggle going on top of the train as it steadily keeps on its way to the tunnel.

"Q", the agent breathes again, trying to convey by his tone the urgency he feels gathering in his lungs.

"...sorry, I can't... M's.... shot...get... the disk...important." They’re losing signal. He swings at the other man's head and knocks him down, finally being able to inhale, reaching immediately for the disk. He's so close, it’s right there, and he opens the transmission again to say, "Tell them to hold on, Q, don't let them-" He never gets to finish, because in central London a woman has uttered his death sentence. "Take the bloody shot", and its not M, is not her cutting pitch that inspires respect on others and a slight twinge of obedience in him, but the mellow timbre he has heard in the violet hour moaning his name. That voice which had made his heart flutter now has broken his trust, sided up with the bitch and it's okay, everything for the sake of the mission. Time stands still, the agent watches in slow motion as a black dot hits him in the chest, admires the view of tiny pieces of glass flying away from the bleeding hole, glittering like diamonds in the sky.

He's shoved back by the force of the impact, over the edge and into the void. He must have killed a Raja in his previous life, for the fall takes its bloody time and it's hellish. Craning his neck, he looks down. There's a river, its waters the colour of blue when blurred by a lens peering into his past, and all at once the human part of himself, completely estranged from the work, is weeping pitifully, because how could he let this happen _again_? The world is not enough, the universe itself wouldn't even begin to cover his agony as he realizes he's drowned and dreamt this moment, a murky crimson sky falling on top of him. Just as time decides to be merciful and go back to normal, he feels the earth moving, he's hitting the water at the speed of light, a hand rising from the dark to drag him deep down. He's not a number or a name anymore, but there's still a letter aching to be said in his lips, all the while that voice taunting him, take the shot, take the shot, take the shot.

He wakes up to an empty bed and an empty life.

 

 


End file.
